got a message on there. Just like I knew it would.
Meet me at the safe house, it says.
There is no name attached to that number, but it’s from Nick. It’s in the same message stream as the one he sent me last night telling me to come outside.
I page down through my contacts and find the number I need and press send.
Harrison answers on the second ring, just like he always does. “I knew you’d need me,” he says in a somber tone.
“I need you,” I say. “I need to go back where you picked me up.”
“Meet me at the plane in an hour.” And then I get the hang-up beeps.
I have about three hours then. Three hours before whatever’s gonna happen out there in Nebraska happens.
And all that depends on Nick. This is the endgame we all thought happened ten years ago. The final roll of the dice to see who comes out ahead and who loses big.
“Hey,” Adam says as I walk up to the jet at the Fort Collins airport. He looks just as ragged as I feel. His suit coat is missing, his white dress shirt is untucked and hanging down like he just threw it on, and his eyes are wild. “Dude, what the fuck was that?”
“What the fuck was what?” I’m still caught in the web of Sasha Cherlin. Distracted and unsettled. Something is wrong.
“That video, dude. I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, it’s fucked up,” I say, taking the steps to the jet two at a time. The inside of the cabin is empty, so I make my way to one of the chairs and sit. My head hurts. “Where’s Essie? I need a drink.”
“She’s not here,” Adam says.
“Why not?” Jesus Christ. All I want is a drink.
“I sent all the girls back to their hotels.”
I look up at Adam and actually see him. He’s one of us. One of the four Taxmen—we come to collect. Me, Jake, Max, and Adam. Adam came a year after Michael’s death, a foster kid like Jake and me, but way smarter. Sasha has Ford, I have Adam. “You want to tell me why?”
He shakes his head. “Not really, dude. Because I have no idea what it means.”
“What what means? It’s Nick, taking a picture of Sasha using her webcam. All I want to know is where it came from. Maybe he’s still there and we can head him off?”
“That’s the problem, Jax. It didn’t come from Nick. It came from Max.”
“What?”
“Nick’s not taking a picture of Sasha. He’s taking a picture of Max. This video came from Max.”
“Why the fuck would Max send that to Sasha’s email?”
Adam just shrugs. We stare at each other for several seconds before I can even think of something to say. “Why do you think he sent it, Adam?”
“Dude, do you realize what you’re asking me?”
“Do you think Nick is setting him up? Sending that to Max’s email and then forwarding it on to Sasha? To make it look like it was from Max?”
“Well…” Adam laughs. “OK. I get the fact that her father is some genius hacker or some shit. But how the fuck would she figure that out, Jax? Why would Nick do that if there’s no way it would mean anything to Sasha? All she’d think was that it came from Nick. And all he says is, Got you. But when I looked close at the end of that video, it’s been cut. There was more, but someone cut it off.”
My mind is racing with possibilities. “What if Max was just trying to scare her? You know, make her afraid of Nick? Make that motherfucker even creepier than he is?”
Adam huffs out a breath. “Hey, if that’s what you believe, I’m OK with it.”
“Dammit, Adam, that’s not what I’m asking you.”
“No, you’re asking me to ignore the obvious. Max did this, OK? I know that’s true. If Nick did this, then why cut off the end of the video? So the question you need to be asking is what did Max hope to gain? And scaring Sasha? Sure, OK. But why?”
I roll the only logical possibility around in my head, trying it on for size. “I don’t like it. I don’t like a lot of this. Nick is telling Sasha one thing and I’m telling her something else. So I guess the first question is who’s calling the shots for Nick?”
“Nick calls the shots for Nick, Jax. We all know that now. He never worked for Matias. He’s fucking blue-blood Company,